October pressed against this late September day, the work is shifting from its last interation, beholden though I am to it… here’s Dick, with “interation,” pointing out that, interred, brought to ground, caught as one thing and not another, as a form, the work loses its most spectacular quality, possibility.  But not so these optics, I say, leaning back in my chair, crossing my feet on the table like I invented light going through glass. These optics are Sirens in a box, and now that I’ve broken the seal I hear their whirling – what is the word for the kind of sound they make?  The whining angel hum of a bowed saw, or a theremin? The voice of Clare Torry? What’s the word for that?  what will they do with light.

“Chatoyancy?”  Spectrology?  Eh?  Photonics?

The dispersion of light.  Now that’s problematic because dispersion may be related to quantity, and talk about one foot on the dock and one on the boat, we are talking about the very nature of light. So far I think I’m in a better position for my luck and intuition, with strict adherence to the unproven, to the creative, to the Cloud of I Just Might Be In There.

I can’t tell anything about it until I’m in the middle of whatever i implied myself to, in the remoter regions of the making mind, in its sleep, where ideas do the least harm to the unfurling.

I have 7 in-progress works.  Already hanging, with the wiring system in place.  I can rig up a few optics in wire, which isn’t nothing to think about, how to hold a slippery, fragile object with as little wire as possible.  I have a new respect for fisherman’s net with glass orb floaters woven in.  Life takes skill.  It takes thinking, and these glass optics are finicky, they weigh a lot on one side, or in one direction, and not so much on the other. and I’m a barefoot worker in a cement studio.

that moment of a priori knowledge, and even unnoticed versions of revelation like speculation, guessing, just going about one’s own business, the choice, the selection, the moment of determination, seeded by desire alone, and forming, making the habit, fortune telling and action, sister wondered whether to go to a life coach or a fortune teller, there’s no difference, I told her.  It’s all your mind making your life.  Using desire and our best monkey-talent, learning. I think of time lapse photos of growth and change, mosses and molds growing jittery against the camera’s speedy, bent time, or roiling intergalactic gasses rendered in vast passages of change.